without importance.
I was interested on introducing the precise and exact aspect of science…
but I didn`t do it for science’s sake, on the contrary,
I rather did it to discredit her in a sweeter way, light and
Me interesaba introducir el aspecto exacto y preciso de la ciencia...
pero no lo hacía por amor a la ciencia, sino al contrario,
lo hacía más bien para desacreditarla de una manera dulce, ligera y
sin importancia.

Medium as an intellectual tool beyond its speciﬁcity and mocks it
The work regardless of its representative and interpretative character
“Art” in terms of conventions, as “amorphous” as possible
“Construction” in which the work is not an end in itself but an excuse
Readings that can coexist despite being seemingly exclusive

Faced with the prospect of living on the land
The synchronised swimmers thought that
As hollow as the empty echoes sounded
They were still more joyful than the disquieting silence
Of broken underwater speakers
And terrifyingly soothing music
That played no more

ine (d4 Cf6) Moves (c4 e6) She stares at her everyday life crystallized in a flat island of an immense depth, governed by
trically, as an intelligible outline of that manifested (Cc3 d6) One would say Eve Babitz knew the truth of her possibiliposition of an event traces in mirror her own plausible combination (e4 b6) Now Lilah lets herself be rhythmed by her
plored territory and plots (f4 Ab7) Each square, opened to itself towards the whole, hides in fortuity a vital diagram, and
, How to explain you’re naked if not? (Ad3 Cbd7) There is no casualty, even if the eﬀect is not what to be expected. After
hing must die to be transformed (0-0 exf4) Because of this invention, this poetic event, the unconcluded clarity of the
’s why there’s no randomness in Eve, but pure directionality resolved in the daily (infra) supramince paradoxes (Axf4)
l expression or dimensional coagulation has been embodied in this subtle design of logic daily-nature performances,
(Cxe5 0-0) an apparition in the same game of disappearance. Object-trouvé (D2?... Cxd5) or found density (Cxd7 …cxf4)
ore Lilah and likewise Eve; who seems to have overcame the contradiction of an invisible face (Cxd8 …Ad4) Sympathy
wait for the experience of a tragic end (Dxg2 Cxg2) original rule where one’s no more than game, latent possibility, diaepuscular or black&white (Rxg2 Axc3!) To be expanded without fatalism, freedom of freedoms, at the time of choosing

Chillida era vasco, pero sus raíces se Each morning, the anecdote flies over Hernani’s surroundings
to end up possessing the kind Chillidaleku guide’s body.
proyectaron en todo el universo. Eduardo Chillida was the Royal Society Football Club
goalkeeper. While waiting for the opposing team forwards on
Duchamp era energía perdida.
the penalty area border, hands on hips, he used to think about
the relation between dimension and objects.
Ahí radica su encanto.
“Three dimensions”, he whispered on time.
And he gave up soccer, so big and tall.
Chillida did a pencil sketches series with the intention of
shortening distances between time and space. Used to write
with his right hand, he compelled himself to draw them with
the left one.
Behold: an example of challenge.

2:Duchamp
aboufelt
t chall
enging
fascination for the objects which, theoretically,
are beyond man and part of his immediacy. He defined such
daily apparent trivialities, much time had to pass until other
immediate artist, Andy Wharhol, noticed their presence.
Chillida might have taught Duchamp man needs to be fond of
land, as well of slight things.
Man lives surrounded of stimuli,
but he could ever fleehis roots.
Some huge iron roots sprouting with impossible forms.
Roots which reach the rocks protecting the sea, patiently
molded by the wind, the rain, the saltpeter.
Telluric intelligence.

complacerla de por vida. La que armó el gran tinglado del mundo ya dijo que no
era bueno que la mujer estuviese sola, y mucho m…”. De repente una voz en la
oscuridad interfería en la charla diciendo: “¿Y no dijo de paso que no era de
recibo que la verborrea se adueñara de los párrafos?”. Percibiendo mi perplejidad y con
voz de anciana bondadosa, la mujer me decía: “No temas, hijo, es Ferdinand Dupré,
el editor de And however. Su enfado (aparente y meta-irónico) amainará en cuanto
nos adueñemos del silencio que ilumina el castillo de las ideas puras, sin embargo.
After a new creative block working day, I closed my notebook letting out a “What a shit day!” and went to bed
without even giving goodnights to the cat. As I felt asleep, a woman, let’s say ambi-sexual, burst in my dream
and said: “Because actually Monsieur Duchamp c’est moi. And you? Who damn are you?” I don’t know –I answered- and that, according to you (if it’s true who you state you are) would be the same as saying: “I don’t
believe”. In fact, I don’t know neither why or what am I for, nor what am I and which is my place in this dream”.
“Anyone who believes does not –the woman whispered- since only who, with extreme discretion, disbelieves
me will be able to work the immeasurable field I gave men. I want you to be the new insolence missionary, the
one restoring my kingdom before ideas are extinct from words and these only do to give sensed nonsense
condolences to the rejected bachelors”. “But you never wanted to have disciples” I said, giving no credit to
what I was listening. “My only wish at this moment –the woman said- is you act to resolve my delayed1 will.
Take note on your mind what I’m going to say and actualize it to the extent it is a physically contra-aesthetical
flam2. 1- Acte d’honneur. To make the sun embracing the pleasure retinal organs visible in the no-vision (you’d
better entrust yourself to St. Lucía) 2- Acte d’humour: Desdalinize that girl’s moustache whose name sounds
as an expensive bitch (you must do it yourself 3: barbers who long for a place in history are not allowed) 3- Acte
d’amour: Search for the first version of ‘Roue de byciclette’ (in this case, make yourself sure of the collaboration
of a good bloodhound) If you finally came across with it, set fire the stool and fix the wheel over a marble cube,
where you should write in lipstick (better rouge to rose) the phrase Who’s afraid of Rrose Sélavy? over its visible
faces. Then, install the piece of work at 68 Rue du Vice, Rouen”. Humoring her, I asked if I should do anything
in relation to the Philadelphia exhibitionist. “Naturally –she answered- that would be your tour de force. Look
for a male (so much better if he is handsome) willing to please her through a lifetime. The one who kicked up
the real world fuss, already said it was no good for a woman to be alone, much l…“ Suddenly, a voice in the
dark intervened the conversation saying: “And didn’t she say, by the way, It was not expectable for the verbal
diarrhoea to take over the paragraphs? 4 Perceiving my puzzlement, with a kind old lady’s voice, the woman
said: “Don’t be afraid son, its Ferdinand Dupré, the And however’s editor. His anger (apparent and meta-ironic) will drop down when we take hold of the silence illuminating the castle of the pure ideas, nevertheless…

BUENOS AIRES, http://flickr.com/photos/gabrielmagri/

[x GABRIEL MAGRI]

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Now > Different When

“Bullshit!” said Joe Biden responding to a speech by the president of
the U. S. of A. who had just narrowly redeﬁned appeasement. Bush
is the dude, if memory serves me, the Supreme Court appointed to
run the country for eight years after running Texas like a pig farm
[x alfredo de la rosa]
for too long.

insubordination in our time:
a refusal of the existing order

If you think Joe was subversive you’d be off the mark by an inch or two.
The president’s smarmy, smirky attitude begat an autovalorization
structured on taurine ordure that we folk call bullshit. The under-25
populations the world over recognize in Bush’s attitude of fantasy comic
book revenge theory backstory and historical tribal memory their own
cultures, subjects to moan and rap about and sometimes to counter with a
vest full of fatal surprise to set off in crowds. The president of the U.S.
of A. has attitude big time and a belief that history as well will anoint him
All-Time Hero of Planet Earth, a global warming belying his disbelief in
the phenomenon.
For a time the attitude of art historians, curators and the art
world establishment was snarly and smirky, too, in thrall to
the Enlightenment. A few artists free from studio tics, whose
facture was not generated from habit, responded with salons
of refused art that served as appeals to art historians, critics,
patrons, collectors and lay viewers for
“a refusal of the existing order.”
/home/art
boulder, http://ipernity.com

snooze_conceptualista

la
un

Two giants of the 20th Century art world, Picasso and Duchamp, were
neither absent from nor insubordinate to what the existing order
handed down and petriﬁed from the old order. They intuited
connections of ideational dots for robots and machines built on an order
that they understood made artists creatures of habit and slaves to reason.
Perhaps the Turing Test applied to George Bush, a Harvard MBA and a
failed combat pilot, as well as to artists as true believers, would afﬁrm
Descartes’ theories on whether or not a machine can think.

nothingness.
It doesn’t matter what fate
says, or what I say,
since none was there
when I wrote this.
The faces of time spark oﬀ
in memories scattering on
the floor, rising as walls to
stop us and change us and
turn us into faces,
and defeat us in melancholic
moments which spark
and turn us into memories.
nothing.

It always happens when I get into a museum or a space
somebody (whoever they are, I’ve never met them and
they’re never close at hand when one has questions)
has agreed to call artistic: I dream of finding every wall
empty, on blank. The whole flooring clean, without anything
exhibited. All ceilings bare, exhausted, without a thing
to notice. Just the usual lights casting their ultra studied
clarity into the most absolute void, on the white of the wall,
in the most uneasy nothingness. I would pay to enter the
Zero Museum, during The Walls Without Anything definitive
exhibition, the Absolute Vacuum’s retrospective, just to see
how (I’m sure) many would be convinced of that which they
are observing responds to some artist’s will (any, especially
with an impossible to pronounce name) an avant-gardist,
who (of course!) has ‘wanted us to think there is nothing
there’, but has not been able to mislead the shrewd who see
his genius, his skill, his mastery of white, of nonexistence, of
void, as a splendid and narrow expression of present time.
And they would twist of pleasure in the presence of
the great idea of a work which recreates a wall, with
its dimensions, its lights, its white and its gotelé.
How comes? Because we desire to believe. Because we
can’t aﬀord the idea of entering an ‘art space’ and finding
just a void, lies, deception. Because, if that was the case,
there would be nothing left to believe, nothing to grasp as
a climber to his rope. If everything inside a museum is art,
when I don’t hang anything, would it still be a museum?
Si no te gusta, tengo más.
:-)
Un beso.
P

For a translator, any written work is definitively unfinished. No word is stable, no sign is fully
authorized to signify any single meaning. The existence of hundreds of translations of the
same work is the product of this continual displacement—new versions replace those whose
language is outmoded, whose translators work with diﬀerent perceptions of the author’s
mode of signification or the aesthetics of the piece.
Even within the same language, no work is ever finished—as Borges would say: it modifies
both the works that have come before it and those which will follow. Its aesthetics always
changes in relationship to the works which inspired it, and which the piece itself in turn
inspires.
What was once written in solemn authority is later satirized in a mockery of its discourse.
What was written in jest may eventually become direly serious. And sometimes, what was
written in humor translates into a satire of the satire.
This last situation has been my experience translating ¡Wait For Me in Siberia, My Love! by
Enrique Jardiel Poncela. Witness the following…

Women… What doubt could there be that they constituted life’s only happiness and only
consolation?
But they were all a bunch of idiots.
In the end… What was the difference between a woman and an Osram light bulb, for
example? None at all. Light bulbs and women were the same. For the following reasons:
Because they were fragile.
Because they survived thanks to metallic ﬁlament.
Because they fancied themselves transparent.
Because they radiated heat.
Because their light brightened just before they burned out.
Because they were indispensable in salons.
Because they were empty inside.
Because they could all cite the name of some citizen who had screwed them over.
The joke has become the joke. Any satire, exaggeration, irony, as minimal as it may be finds
its basis in reality. If the reality underscoring Jardiel’s—is there any other word?—misogynist
concept of women, mine is the total absurdity of his representation. The humor no longer lies
solely in his words, but in the fact that they were ever written.

tos/osiatynska
warsaw, http://flickr.com/pho
1.When trav
eli
for company ng alone on a train, do I
,o
p
2.Do I prefe r do I prefer [b] an em refer [a] to have someo
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n
at no one wi e to sit with,
[b] cats? or [
3.In friendsh
ll disturb me
b] doglike c
ips, do I seek
?
a
t
4.When the
s
[
phone rings, b] identiďŹ cation or [a] ? or [b] catlike dogs?
di
d
or do I [a] s
pring to pick o I [b] recoil momentar scovery?
ily and wait
it up with ex
5.Do I prefer
before I answ
c
i
to look at [a
er
] my own pi tement?
me?
ctures of oth
ers or [b] ot
6.Do I more
hersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; picture
often [a] rem
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remember p
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eople who d mber people who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t
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remember m
7.Do I prefe
r to [a] visit remember me?
e or [b] not
other people
8.Do I somet
or
imes go for d
ays without c [b] for people to visit m
ontacting an
ybody? [a if e?
no; b if yes]

they were necessary procedures
walk myself a weary walk
the grimaces I remember are not this
neither are these
the faces
the gaits
the imprecisions
perhaps It’s not exact
to mention the tearings
how far a body can stand when the body
stands?
I should be flying and maybe
that’s precisely
what I’m doing
but … flying I go?